


The skin that crawls from you

by headless_thoughts



Series: The untold tales of a travelling bard [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, Child Death, Geralt can be soft as a treat, Horror Elements, M/M, is it pre-slash or not?, man i don't even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27013552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headless_thoughts/pseuds/headless_thoughts
Summary: The contract seemed like any at the beginning. But it turned out to be much more.Jaskier would never describe himself as a coward. However, he couldn't help but feel afraid when he found the monster before Geralt, if one could even call it a monster.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The untold tales of a travelling bard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971490
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	The skin that crawls from you

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest fic I've ever written and also the first one in a long time, that isn't more than a small drabble. I was very surprised to find out, once again, how fun writing can be if it doesn't make me feel absolutely horrible. If the characterization seems a bit off at certain moments, blame that on my stupid decision to start playing the games and reading the books during the process of me writing this fic, so there's lots of different versions of Geralt and Jaskier mixed together in here.
> 
> I also want to give you some warnings before you start reading this. While it does take a while until you get there, there is body horror in this and also the death of a child. I don't want to go into too much detail here, so I'll write a more furrow explanation in the notes at the end. If you feel like I should tag more warnings or describe them better, please message me so I can change it according to your wishes.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you have fun with this.

Jaskier was called many different names during his life and was described by even more words. Most of them are contradicting one another, since depending if you’re the husband or the wife, you’ll either think of him as a poet who should be pitied for his strong case of lovesickness, with a tongue useful for a variety of different skills, or you think of him as an asshole who just couldn’t keep his fingers to himself and damn him to get kicked by an ox _really_ hard, _really_ soon, somewhere where it _really_ hurts.  
  
Jaskier was used to all of it and didn’t mind it much. Except when people called him a coward. He tried to deny it, whenever possible.  
  
He was many things, but not a coward.  
  
too curious for his own good? Yes.  
  
Stupid? If you ignore the fact that he studied the seven liberal arts at Oxenfurt, then maybe.  
  
But coward? No.  
  
In fact, Jaskier liked to think that, since he started travelling with Geralt a couple years ago, he grew less and less afraid of the world. Even though something in his mind said it ought to be the other way around. After all the things he saw, he should’ve grown more fearful of each sound in the dark night, of each unidentified shadow passing in the corner of his eye, his mind ready with a myriad of images of what the source could be, now that he knew what monsters truly lurked out there.  
But maybe something about always having a Witcher in your close proximity was making him feel stupidly safe. He still had moments of increased heartbeats, rushed breathing and sweaty palms, still felt panic at the sight of the monsters Geralt slew. The ragged breathing of ghouls still managed to make shivers go up and down his spine, the gurgling of drowners dragging their cold bodies out of the water still made him jump, however they didn’t haunt him afterwards. It was only a quick moment of panic, followed by Geralt silently rummaging through their corpses to see what he could salvage.  
Jaskier would always laugh about his shivering knees later.  
  
He still wasn’t courageous, wouldn’t dare call himself brave, but it was enough for him and his songs. He tried to make them similar to how he felt, see the comedic aspect of his panic and sing them to his audience. It also helped, that drunk people generally liked songs to laugh about more than those that leave the tavern in a stunned silence long after the last note was played. People loved stories, and people needed something to laugh about. So Jaskier delivered. The world was harsh enough as it was.  
Nevertheless, there were stories he wouldn’t ever tell a soul, because they left even him tossing and turning at night. Besides, he didn’t think anybody would believe the stories to be true, since even to his own ears, they sounded more like the cautionary old wives’ tale his maid used to tell him, than something that really happened.  
  
He sometimes wondered what Geralt thought about them, if they stood out to him in his long life as a witcher or if the only thing they left was just another scar in his collection.

  


* * *

  


They had been travelling together long enough for Jaskier to become picky with his material about Geralt’s hunts. Although he should be grateful that the biggest trouble a village had was a pack of drowners or a wraith, his songs needed the variety. And if he wrote a ballad for every poor soul who met their tragic demise too soon for their spirit to rest, well, he certainly needed much more parchment and ink.  
  
So when he saw an older woman hesitantly walking towards Geralt during his performance, a little hope for adventure grew inside him. Granted, most likely Geralt wouldn’t let Jaskier come with him, but alas hope always dies last, or at least that was his humble opinion.  
  
Whatever the woman’s problem was, it was bigger than her wariness for the witcher. From the short glance Jaskier managed to spare them, before shifting his focus back to the crowd, she looked lost. the worry was written in the wrinkles of her forehead and the darkened rings around her eyes were signs of sleeplessness. Dressed like any other commoner and with her head bowed, she stood in front of Geralt, only for him to nod to the empty seat opposite of him. She reluctantly accepted the invitation.  
  
The night went on and the children who sneaked out of their beds to enjoy the entertainment were found by their parents and dragged home. With them gone, he felt comfortable enough to sing some of his raunchier songs. Most of them were jigs and an improvised dance floor formed, where a few pairs quickly turned around each other in the rhythm of the music, while the rest stayed seated and simply clapped along, either because their feet already hurt enough after a day full of work, or because they were already too drunk to walk, let alone dance. The dreary inn filled with life and Jaskier, accompanied by his lute, was the source of it.  
After a particular song about a village tormented by earthquakes only to learn that the cause of their predicament was a horny couple of Cyclops, he looked towards Geralt’s table. Surely a woman in her age must’ve been at least a little shocked over the obscene lyrics, but apparently she’d already left, since Geralt was, once again, seated alone in the corner, brooding.  
  
He finished his song, feeling all eyes on him, as they expectantly waited for his next song, when the innkeeper stood in front of him. “Alright everyone, let’s call it a night, shall we? If you haven’t gotten a room here, you can piss off.”  
  
With a satisfied grin, a heavier coin pouch than before, his throat slightly hoarse and still feeling the pressure of the lute strings on his fingertips, he sauntered through what was left of the parting crowd (it was mostly the same drunks who’d stayed seated before). He took the same seat as the woman previously, resting his lute in his lap and looked Geralt expectantly in the eyes.  
  
“Three words again?”, Geralt asked.  
  
“Well, I’m always glad about any review, even yours, unhelpful as they may be, but that’s not what I wanted.” Geralt lifted an eyebrow and Jaskier took it as a sign to continue. “What did that woman want? Please tell me it’s a contract, I am in desperate need of new song material.”  
  
“You could always write more cyclops porn.”  
  
“Hey! That song is genius, even if you don’t think so. Well, I must admit, it’s not my best, but that’s what you get for always complaining about ‘toss a coin’. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Got a contract?” Quickly Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s tankard from the table and took a swing from it. He was sure no matter how fast he moved, if Geralt truly wanted, the witcher could’ve just stopped him. Jaskier liked to think that the fact Geralt didn’t, meant that he was at least a little bit fond of him.  
  
“Yes. Her son’s been missing. Told her I could look into it tomorrow morning. It’s no use starting anything so late.”  
  
“Great! Well, not for her or her son, but us.”  
  
“Mmhh.” Geralt took back his tankard, downed the last of the ale with one gulp, stood up and went up the stairs to their shared room. Theoretically, they had the coin for two separate rooms this time, however, the discount Jaskier managed to agree on with the innkeeper for playing every night as long as he stayed only included one room. At least it had two beds, not that Jaskier minded sharing one with Geralt either. They had done so many times before, and although Jaskier would never admit it out loud, he quite enjoyed it. Especially now in the hot late summer, when Geralt’s body remained steadily cool, a pleasant side effect of his slowed heartbeat.  
  
Jaskier remained seated for a couple of moments longer, wondering if Geralt’s answer was a yes or a no. Jaskier liked to say that he was one of the only people on the continent who figured out the meaning behind Geralt’s grunts and humms. However, in moments like these, not even he, a self-proclaimed expert, knew exactly what Geralt meant. Maybe the witcher didn’t quite know it himself.  
  
“Want me to refill that for you?”, the barmaid asked and ripped him out of his thoughts.  
  
“No thanks, my love, I was just about to head up.”, he nodded towards the stairs for emphasis.  
  
“Leaving me all alone her then.”, she pouted, before her lips formed into a grin. She was cute and had caught his attention earlier this evening already. Now though, he finally had the time to observe her closely. Her hair was separated into two braids and pinned up around her ears, like it was the style for unmarried girls in this region. But after an eventful night like this one, it was quite dishevelled. Her apron was littered with stains and her skin was coated by a sheen of sweat from the stressful shift and the hot air of summer evenings, which almost made her look like she was glowing in the warm light of the tavern.  
  
“You’re not all alone.”, he said. It was true, even though the inn was technically closing and the other workers cleaned up the mess of today, wiping down tables sticky with spilt ale and cheap wine, there were still a handful of guests standing at the bar, discussing something with the innkeeper. On closer examination, the barmaid maybe was the innkeeper’s daughter, they both shared the same strong jaw and nose.  
  
“Oh, those are all a bore to be around.”, she sighed dramatically.  
  
“And I’m not?”  
  
“At least not according to your songs.” She leaned even closer and Jaskier couldn’t complain about the view he was getting. She knew exactly what she was doing. “So, like I said, you’re leaving me here alone?”  
  
“I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to. But I promise you, I’ll gladly be your company any other night.”, he winked, she blushed, “Anyway, I wish you a good night. May the stars whisper their sweetest dreams into your ears.” Before he left, he quickly took her hand and pressed a light kiss onto the back of her hand. She giggled.  
  
“I will remind you of it tomorrow then.”  
  
Generally speaking, Jaskier didn’t call himself a flirt. He didn’t sweet-talk just because he wanted to end up in someone’s bed. He just liked people, and how could you not with so many beautiful individuals out there? And if he liked one thing more than people, then it was talking to them and making them blush and grin and feel happy. And if he achieved that by flirting, well then he had no other choice but to do exactly that. In almost every case, the person he was talking to left with a smile and a fond memory of him. The only exceptions were rather angry spouses and, sadly, Geralt. If only the witcher expressed his wishes as clearly as the spouses, but naturally not.  
  
How can one person be so emotionally constipated? Jaskier knew the emotionless witcher-shtick was bullshit, but he must admit it was hard to convince others when Geralt was either brooding or sighing irritatedly more times than not. Nevertheless, Jaskier was never one to back down from a challenge, especially if said challenge looked as good in leather pants and armour as Geralt.  
  
Oh yes, Jaskier wouldn’t deny it, he’d fallen, and fallen hard, for Geralt of Rivia. It happened rather quickly and unexpectedly. At first Jaskier thought the obvious attraction he felt towards the witcher wouldn’t last long, none ever did. Jaskier’s heart rarely stayed where it should be, instead favouring a spot high in his throat, where it would beat harder than it had any right to whenever someone gave him a warm smile. But it never stayed up there long enough for dust to collect in the hole it left behind. The butterflies in his stomach were always fleeting. As quickly as he fell in love, he fell out of it. He just couldn’t put all his attention on one person for a long amount of time.  
  
It had a positive side, as a travelling bard, being heartbroken about leaving a love behind would not only damage his career in the long term, but also his mental stability. Thus travelling with Geralt was a splendid idea, since he can’t cry about leaving the person he yearned for, when said person was right next to him.  
  
And yearn he did.  
  
Hard.  
  
That handsome bastard was Jaskier’s only exception when it came to love, since Jaskier’s heart was still up in his throat, no matter how much he begged for it to go down again. It only steadily increased since their shared adventures. Seeing how gentle Geralt could be, how the soft morning light made his white hair glow, how his rough hands gently combed through his hair whenever he deemed it too messy. Jaskier could write epics about it, filling notebook after notebook from cover to back with his silent pleas for his love to be returned. And with these silent hopes in his mind, he made his way up the stairs to their shared bedroom.  
If Geralt saw Jaskier’s small, longing smile when he entered the room, then he didn’t mention it, instead he focused on one of his shirts that he recently ripped during a fight. The hunt had been nothing noteworthy, a handful of Endregas made their nest too close for the town’s comfort and Geralt had taken quick care of it. The ripped shirt was the biggest loss for him and it was only predictable that the first thing he did, once they had the time to rest a bit, was to mend it. So he did, sitting cross-legged on the bed, carefully stitching the tear closed.  
  
The room was just what one could expect from an inn in a small village in the middle of nowhere. Small, but neither in an uncomfortable nor cosy way. The furniture was well used, the chest between the two beds got jammed up more times than not and one had to use a bit of force to open it up. A couple of stains adorned the small table, on which a pitcher full of water, a cloth and a bowl stood, to wash oneself quickly. The musty smell of old, well-slept in linen had settled into the room long enough for it to become a permanent feature.  
  
Jaskier carefully laid the lute down next to his bed, so it was leaning against the wall and took off his shoes. A short wave of relief washed over him as his toes were finally free to wriggle around again. He could see how one corner of Geralt’s mouth slightly moved upward, just the barest hint of a smile.  
  
“Are you mocking me?”, Jaskier asked, a teasing lilt in his voice.  
  
“I would never.”  
  
“Somehow I don’t believe you. I wonder why.”  
  
Geralt shook his head and put down his shirt, the needle still in it. “If you simply had better shoes, your feet wouldn’t hurt so much.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you have to admit, they do look good.”  
  
Geralt only hummed.  
  
This wasn’t the first time they had this conversation. Geralt always complained about Jaskier’s unsuitable shoes and fashion choices in general, but if Jaskier was a bard, and the last time he checked he still was one, he also had to look like it too. Although Geralt would never take this argument seriously.  
  
Jaskier prepared further to go to bed, took off his doublet and put it gently in the chest together with a bit of lavender in hopes that it would help the expensive fabrics not to pick up the musty smell of the room. He poured a bit of water from the pitcher into the bowl and washed his face, using the moment to acquire more about their possibly shared adventure. “Where are we going to meet this lady tomorrow?”  
  
“I’m going to meet her, you’re going to stock up on our supplies.”  
  
“If there is an ‘us’ I should get supplies for, there is also a ‘we’. So, once again, where are we meeting this lady?”  
  
“Jaskier, it’s a contract, we’ve already talked about this. It could be dangerous.”, Geralt said.  
  
“It could. But so far, there isn’t any talk of monsters, only mothers missing their sons. Who knows, maybe the kid ran away? Wouldn’t be the first one to do so, and surely not the last one either. I know when it’s my time to leave and your time to do your… your witchering.. stabby monster hunting-thingy.”  
  
Geralt looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Just monster hunting.”  
  
“Exactly!”, Jaskier exclaimed, “Until then, I’ll accompany you. Plus, I can help out plenty. You see, some people seem rather… intimidated by you, especially that woman. Looked like she’d get a heart attack if you breathed too loudly. I, on the other hand, don’t have that effect. Besides, and I don’t think you would deny that words are my strong suit, not yours. We can still work on it though.”  
  
Geralt only hummed once more as an answer, though it sounded like an agreement to Jaskier. He went to bed shortly afterwards, his back turned to Geralt so he couldn't see Jaskier’s victorious smile.

  


* * *

  


Geralt’s preference for routines must have rubbed onto Jaskier during their travels at some point, since they established one for practically everything, setting the camp up, cleaning up after a hunt or, as it was now, waking up. Jaskier normally rose at around the same time as Geralt. At the very least when Geralt was putting on Roach’s tack and fastened his bags onto her, because the noise woke him up. However, sometimes he pretended to continue sleeping (though he doubted its effectiveness) just to eavesdrop on Geralt’s conversation with the horse. It honestly was adorable.  
  
It was a completely different story if they stayed at an inn. Many nights Jaskier wouldn’t even return to his bed, and if he did, it was between late night and early morning. He never woke up with Geralt, the witcher having already left either for breakfast or whatever he decided to occupy his time with.  
  
So even though it normally wouldn’t surprise him, when Jaskier woke up this morning with an empty bed next to him, the blankets neatly folded, a bit of panic rose up within him. He had hoped to spend some time together with the witcher today, and even though he was able to convince Geralt of his splendid idea last night, he feared the witcher might have left without him. His armour and one of his swords were still in the room, put down with almost the same amount of care as Jaskier would with his lute, but that didn’t mean much. During their stays in cities, Geralt would often wander around without them, hoping to make himself less recognisable. It worked, but only from a distance, since he couldn’t disguise his eyes or hair, both a rather unusual colour.  
  
Silently cursing, he got dressed and raced down the stairs, afraid that Geralt had already left. It wouldn’t be like him to do so, and Jaskier doubted that the witcher even had such petty thoughts as to just up and leave him, but you never know.  
Jaskier tried not to assume things anymore, ever since one of his lovers, sweet as they were, tried to stab him. The whole ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’-thing, admittedly, was something Jaskier should’ve followed sooner, since it’s kind of what many of his songs, especially the ones telling tales of the white wolf, are about, but how else would you judge a book? The title?  
He knew from experience, that the title was often the last thing a writer comes up with and, at least in Jaskier’s case, kind of last minute.  
  
So, maybe you should judge a book by its cover, since Geralt, of course, would never do such a thing and leave him. Especially not if he was sitting at the same table as last night, contentedly eating breakfast.  
  
“You didn’t wake me.”, Jaskier said, as he sat down opposite of Geralt.  
  
“You looked like you needed the sleep.”, he replied, not even lifting his head, instead he kept on focusing on the bowl of kasha in front of him.  
  
“You could just say I look like shit.”, he retorted, still rubbing the last traces of sleep out of his eyes, looking around for a barmaid to order his breakfast.  
  
Geralt stopped eating and looked at Jaskier. “I didn’t say that. I said you looked like you needed sleep.”  
  
Finally a barmaid came over, the same as last night, and put a bowl in front of Jaskier, winking as she left. He smirked back, before focusing on their conversation again, swinging his spoon around like a weapon. “Yeah, yeah. You just didn’t want me to come with you. I know your tricks.”  
  
And with that, their usual morning routine continued. Jaskier chattered on and Geralt stayed mostly silent, only calling the bard out for a particularly unbelievable story, about how he once saved a boy from being trampled at a horse race, since the kid decided it was a good idea to go after his lost toy. His courageous rescue not only got him the lord’s gratitude, since it turned out the boy was his son, but also a warm place to stay during the winter.  
  
“Dogshit”, was all Geralt had to say.  
  
“It’s true though, if I still had the bruises on my back, I could prove it to you. But alas, my skin is as untouched from harm as ever.”  
  
“Why were you even down by the track and not on the sand with the other spectators?”  
  
“Oh”, Jaskier sighed and dramatically gripped his chest, “there was this absolutely gorgeous stableboy. I couldn’t help myself, I just had to get a taste, if you know what I mean?”  
  
Geralt didn’t answer, just bent his head down and stared into his empty bowl.  
  
“Do you still want to come with me?”  
  
Jaskier swallowed another spoonful of kasha. “To the old lady? Of course. Why do you ask”  
  
Geralt simply shrugged. “Selyse.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Her name”, Geralt murmured, “It’s Selyse.”  
  
“So when are we going to speak to her?”  
  
“Soon enough.”  
  
“Are you going to put on your armour before we go?” Jaskier asked.  
  
“Not before I have to.”  
  
“Afraid of scaring her, eh?” Geralt didn’t answer his teasing, just like Jaskier expected. He quickly finished his breakfast, placed some coins on the table for both Geralt and him and got up, patting the witcher on the shoulder. “Now, now, stop your brooding, it’s barely morning. And not to forget, we have a missing kid to find!”  
  
Without looking back, he walked out of the tavern into the fresh air, or however fresh the air in a village can be, when the streets are filled with animal excrements that nobody seemed to clean up. Instead they lay there so long, until they become part of the muddy pathways. Just at the sight alone Jaskier’s longing to feel the stone and cobble streets of cities under his boots again rose up.  
  
Geralt, although Jaskier didn’t hear his footsteps, followed him outside and was now urging him on to continue moving, mimicking his prior enthusiasm in a mocking “We’ve got a missing kid to find!”  
  
The short walk through the village gave them their first real overview of it, since they barely had any time for exploration yesterday, arriving tired and hungry in the evening with the only desire to find an inn as quickly as possible. The village didn’t differ much from the ones to the east, where they had stayed only a few nights ago. The inhabitants didn’t care much for presentation or aesthetics, practicality being the most important factor of all. The huts were small, but sturdy and every activity which could be done outside, was done outside in an unashamed display of the common life in the countryside. Jaskier and Geralt were quite a contrast to it, each in their own way. Jaskier through his colourful clothing and loud manners, and Geralt, although he tried to hide it with his cloak, through his large built and white hair, that only shined brighter in the sun of the early morning.  
  
They arrived at a specific hut, how Geralt knew it was the right one was a mystery to Jaskier since it looked pretty much like all the others in the village, and knocked. After a few moments, the door opened just enough for a woman to press her head through and Jaskier, who finally had a name to connect with the face, recognized her as Selyse. She realised who her visitors were and relieve spread across her face in the form of a smile. “Good morning.”, she greeted them and opened the door more for them to step inside.  
  
Judging by the few glances Jaskier threw her way the evening prior, she looked better this morning, less tired. maybe she finally got some sleep after the reassurance of someone willing to help her.  
  
“Good morning.”, Geralt greeted back, trying to make his voice sound softer than normal. A habit Jaskier observed him doing often, whenever Geralt was afraid to spook someone with his overall presence, be it kids, the elderly or anyone in between.  
  
But it was not Geralt at which Selyse stared in confusion, but Jaskier and so the bard quickly introduced himself. “I’m Jaskier, the bard. I’ll assist Geralt on the search.” He wanted to go in for a bow, as he usually did, but knew it wasn’t the right occasion for such theatrics. Villagers, especially desperate ones, rarely found his acts amusing if they weren’t inside a tavern and with a good ale to wash all their worries down for an evening.  
  
She acknowledged him with a short nod and he took the opportunity to get a better look at his surroundings. The hut was cosy, if one didn’t mind how small it was. One room, strategically separated by a shelf filled with different kinds of utensils and herbs, which made the air smell as if one fell right into a garden. A quick look behind the shelf showed a small alcove with two beds stuffed into it.  
  
“You’re a herbalist?”, Geralt asked, nodding to the direction of the shelf.  
  
“Oh no, I’m a midwife, though some people also come to me for general medical advice. But I must say, if it’s bigger than a simple cold, I’m not much help.”  
  
“What do you do then?”, Jaskier said, eager to let the small talk continue before they discussed more serious matters.  
  
“I sent them to an actual herbalist, not as good as a proper healer, but still better than nothing. She lives outside the village, in a forest clearing. Not many people like her, but I do. You must know”, she lowered her voice, “she has an illegitimate daughter.”  
  
Geralt and Jaskier shared a look, the news not nearly as scandalous to them as Selyse made it seem.  
  
“I assume correctly that you’re married then?”, Jaskier asked.  
  
“I was. My husband died many years ago.”  
  
“I’m sorry for your loss.”  
  
“Thank you, but there is no need. As I said, it happened a long time ago. Please, don’t just stand there, come and sit, I can make you some tea, if you want.”  
  
They declined the offer for tea, but sat down on the bench near the fireplace. It creaked slightly.  
  
“It’s just…”, she began again, “It’s difficult to forget. Especially because it happened on the same night as my son’s birth. According to Yontek, the wolves must’ve caught him.”  
  
Now it was Geralt’s turn to speak again. “So, is Yontek a hunter?”  
  
“Yes, he and my husband both were. Now, there’s only him.”  
  
“Why were they hunting at nighttime?”  
  
Selyse had a puzzled look on her face. “I don’t know, I never thought about it.” She lowered her head in shame at her realisation.  
  
“Excuse me”, Jaskier interrupted the following silence, not wanting it to grow any bigger, “but I’m no expert on hunting. How did you know it was wolves?”  
  
“I didn’t see his body myself”, she admitted, her voice now thick with a sadness that still ate at her heart even after all these years, “but Yontek told me that… that he was shredded to pieces.”  
  
“You’re sure it couldn’t have been a monster?”, Geralt said.  
  
“If it were, then it must’ve left the woods after the attack, for Laslow was the only victim.”  
  
“Mmhh… Do you often have troubles with wolves?”  
  
She paused a moment to think. “Not more than the neighbouring villages. However, I heard that a couple of sheep were killed by wolves recently. My gods, what if Mikkjal…” She didn’t even finish saying her thoughts out loud, already turning pale.  
  
Jaskier cleared his throat. “Mikkjal must be your son then, right? How old is he?” Whereas Geralt tried to keep his voice as matter-of-factly as possible, Jaskier tried to keep his own lighter as to not dampen the mood any further. Apparently it worked, since she smiled slightly at the memory of her child, though just as quickly a sadness appeared in her eyes. “Yes, Mikkjal’s my little boy. Or not so little, since he’s already twelve. Almost thirteen.”  
  
“Can you tell us more about him? Like if he wore anything to recognise him by.”, said Geralt.  
  
“Well, we don’t have any fancy clothing, if that’s what you’re asking. He has short dark hair, blue eyes, almost green sometimes. And he always carries his father’s hunting knife with him. Knows how to use it too, Yontek made sure of that.”  
  
“You and Yontek seem close.”, Jaskier said.  
  
“Well, yes. Like I said, he and my husband were working together and he’s helped us out ever since. He was also the one to organise a search party, when Mikkjal first went missing.”  
  
“Can you tell us more about that?”, Geralt asked.  
  
She paused again before answering. “He went missing five days ago. I just woke up one day and he was gone. At the beginning, I didn’t think much of it. He had a habit of sneaking off, he always went to Yanina’s house, the herbalist I told you about. I think he was fond of her daughter, Branka.”, Slowly, a smile spread across her face, “He would always come back before sundown, that was one of my only rules. I’m not a strict mother, but I want him to be safe. So when he didn’t come back that evening, I began to worry. I waited for a few bit longer, before I went and asked Yontek for help. Together with a few other folks, we searched the area until it was well into the night. They said we should continue the next day. We did, but still didn’t find a trace of him.  
“Another day had passed and nobody wanted to help anymore. Yontek only said he would look out for him, but nothing else. They tried to convince me of his death, saying it’s too late. But I know he’s out there, alive. I can feel it, call it maternal instincts or whatever you wish, but I know it.”  
  
Geralt and Jaskeir silently looked at each other. Another ability Jaskeir learnt across their travels was to communicate with Geralt simply with facial expressions. Jaskier slightly sucked in his lower lip in and looked up at Geralt from under his brows, the witcher stared at him, and although his facial expression didn’t change much, it was clear to him that they both shared the same fear: That the other villagers were right. How should a twelve-year-old boy survive all on his own with nothing more than a hunting knife for five days in an area with wolves?  
  
But Selyse’s voice was heavy with desperation and unshed tears. The shared fate of her husband and her son was a shame and not something Geralt nor Jaskier felt comfortable to earn money from.  
  
Geralt was the first who spoke again after their shared realisation. “Can you tell us where Yontek and Yanina live?”  
  
She gave them vague and quite frankly, rather unhelpful descriptions. Geralt nodded along as if he understood them perfectly.  
  
Jaskier swallowed the growing lump in his throat. “We’ll try our best”, was all he managed to say, not wanting to promise too much.  
  
“I’ll come back when I find out anything new.”, Geralt said, stood up and left, Jaskier following behind him.  
  
Jaskier sighed heavily after they put a safe distance between the house and them, so that Selyse wasn’t able to hear them speak. The heavy silence from the house still rested upon them and Jaskier was eager to fill it with words.  
  
“That surely was something, am I right?”  
  
No answer came from Geralt.  
  
“I’m pretty sure I’m right. So anyway, what are we going to do now? I mean, they already searched for him, is there anything left for us to do?”  
  
Geralt still didn’t answer him, instead he just continued walking.  
  
“You’re not actually going to search for him in the woods? They already did it, we’re not going to find much more.”  
  
“Humans are shit at searching for tracks. No offence meant.” Finally Geralt said something.  
  
“None taken. However, it’s still a shitty plan. Even if we find any tracks left behind, if the others haven’t destroyed them completely, the boy is dead, Geralt. We both know it. Why are _you_ suddenly the optimist of the group?” Jaskier may have said it more furious than he should have.  
  
This made Geralt turn around and face Jaskier and he felt the intense glare of yellow eyes on him, making it impossible to look up at the witcher. “Don’t you think a body is better than nothing? Than not knowing what happened to your own child?”  
  
“You want to give her closure, and I get that. But you forgot that sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Let her believe in a happier version of the tale.”  
  
"How can there be a happier version?"  
  
They gathered a small audience, mostly made up of children outright staring at them and their caretakers observing them from over their shoulder, thinking nobody would notice another set of prying eyes. So much for Geralt not wanting to stand out.  
  
“Let us talk later, I need to think.”, Geralt said, and left the scene quickly.  
  
Jaskier knew exactly what Geralt meant by ‘needing to think’. It was a ritual often observed with a hint of amusement by Jaskier, only making slightly fun of how tidy and careful Geralt cared for his few belongings. Geralt’s way of calming down or thinking a situation over was by going through everything in his pack and sorting it out, sometimes making notes on which supplies he needed to restock or if he needed to bring his armour or swords to a blacksmith for repair. Afterwards, he gently put everything back as it was before, always having a specific order in his mind. First were clothes, with a coin bag hidden in one of his rolled-up chemises, then alchemical ingredients wrapped up in cloth or small pouches, joined by food and drink. On top of everything were his potions, always in perfect reach. His meticulous packing was one of the reasons he didn’t want Jaskier to touch his stuff, knowing how much the bard cared for his own way of packing, which only included the rule ‘if it fits in it, it’s a problem for when I need to get it out again’.  
  
Needless to say, Jaskier knew where Geralt went and that he probably didn’t want him around for a while, at least until he had finished thinking. This left him with only a few things left to do, and since the inn was mostly empty before noon, he wouldn’t gain much profit from playing his lute. So he was left with following Geralt to their room, entering without much more than a simple greeting, grabbing his notebook, some ink and a quill and disappearing quickly downstairs.  
  
There was one other guest sitting at the tables, Jaskier recognised them from last night. Otherwise only the workers were buzzing around the room, making sure the stew over the fire was still idly cooking and cleaning up whatever traces of last night were still evident. This of course meant that the barmaid was also present. As soon as she realised Jaskier was sitting at one of the tables, she went and joined him.  
  
She didn’t seem bothered at all by his lack of answers or attention. So while she continued on talking about everything that she could think about and more, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers, he tinkered around with a song he just couldn’t get to sound quite right. Every now and then he looked up from his notebook and she smiled at him as if she never saw anything better in the world. To be honest, Jaskier did enjoy their time spent together. There was something in the way her eyes twinkled when she talked about her passions, the few she had, and how her legs, very much like his own, were constantly in motion, bobbing up and down. He could feel it through the floorboards.  
  
He almost regretted how quickly time passed, signalled by the arrival of more guests, still nowhere near the amount of last night. Dannica, the fair barmaid, had to get up and start working.  
  
He didn’t know if he should feel relief or dread when he saw Geralt coming to join him, sitting down on the same chair as Dannica had before. Geralt wore his armour and his swords leaned against the table. Two bowls of stew were placed in front of them.  
  
“You’re heading out?”, Jaskier asked, although the answer was obvious.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Alright, where are we going?”  
  
Geralt looked at him as if he just swallowed a fly. “I thought you didn’t care about the boy.”  
  
“I do!”, Jaskier was surprised by such a blatant statement, a false one at that, “I do care about him. And about Selyse. It’s just no matter what we’re going to do, we can’t give her what she wants. Or did you hide the fact from me that witchers can raise the dead?”  
  
“I'm not a sorcerer- Besided, necromancy's forbidden in most regions. She only wants to know what happened, to stop worrying. I can give her that.”  
  
“You’ll only replace her worry with more grieve to add to the one already burdening her shoulders.”  
  
“Then tell me about your plan. What should we do according to you? Sing a song about it?”  
  
If Jaskier was in a better mood, he would’ve simply played such comments off, maybe overdramatically act hurt, but as it was doing so just felt… wrong. The way Geralt said things made it seem like Jaskier was some kind of cold-hearted monster. He wasn’t. Neither was Geralt, though his following words made it hard to believe. “You told her we’ll do our best. I intend to do what I promise. We can’t just simply sit and wait and do nothing.”  
  
“I know what I said, but that’s what you tell people who are sad and hopeless. You tell them how sorry you are and that you’ll pray for them to whichever gods they believe in. But you actually do jackshit about it.” The worst thing was that Jaskier truly wanted to help Selyse. Just not in the same way as Geralt. Maybe he really was a coward for dreading to spread sad news if one can chose not to. So what if it was the easy way out? “This is a hopeless search for a boy’s corpse, Geralt. I understand that you want to give her closure, but there are more ways than one to achieve that.”  
  
“There only is one honest way.”  
  
“Am I bad for not wanting for her to think of a lifeless body whenever she recalls the image of her son?”  
  
“So you lie to her. Is that what I should do too?”  
  
“I don’t know.”, Jaskier sighed, embarrassed to admit his cluelessness, looked down in shame. He hadn’t touched his stew at all. “You’re the witcher. It’s your contract.”  
  
“So you won’t be accompanying me?” Even though it was phrased like a question, Jaskier knew it wasn’t one. Geralt had enough of this conversation. The way he looked at Jaskier made the bard’s heart shatter into pieces. His eyes were filled with disappointment, anger and, or at least it seemed that way to Jaskier, with disgust. Worst of all was, Jaskier didn’t know if he deserved it or not.  
  
Gods, he was an idiot. He wanted Geralt to like him, and he ruined his chance to do that forever. Of course, Geralt would never love someone as selfish as Jaskier. Geralt was kind and had a sense of right and wrong, which he actually followed. He would sometimes refuse even payment, simply stating it was the right thing to do. Jaskier on the other hand just looked for more song material. It was obvious from the beginning on that he couldn’t convince Geralt.  
  
The witcher sighed and fidgeted with one of his sleeves. It was only after he pulled out a once neatly folded but now slightly crumpled piece of parchment he stuck on the inside of his sleeve that Jaskier’s confusion cleared up a little. It was the list of ingredients Geralt wrote while he sorted out his bags.  
  
“The least you could do is make yourself otherwise useful.” Geralt said before shoving the notes in Jaskier’s hands and walking away.  
  
Shit, Jaskier really fucked this one up.

  


* * *

  


Jaskier, not wanting to add more reasons as to why Geralt should dislike him, actually did run their errands. Firstly though, he finished his lunch. The stew cooled down throughout Geralt’s and his… discussion, but he ate it nonetheless. Dannica must’ve known about their heated conversation, since she only came to his table to pick up the empty bowls. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he imagined the pitying look in her eyes or not.  
  
Their errands weren’t anything special, just the usual things: some oils, salves and bandages, though they would have to wait to stock up on food until they’ve decided when to continue with their travels. Also written in Geralt’s rather unfortunate handwriting were numerous kind of herbs.  
  
Jaskier knew his fair share of herbs and especially flowers before he met Geralt already. He often used them in his poems, which made them perfect for hiding messages (he was still proud of a Sonett he wrote in a fit of pettiness for a certain professor, secretly telling him to fuck off) and he even named himself after one. However, his knowledge expanded with his time spent with Geralt, since the witcher, at first reluctantly, taught him the most important ones for his potions.  
  
After informing himself how to reach the herbalist, Yanina, Jaskier recalled from his talk wit Selyse, he went on his way. The walk was rather long, but the nice weather made his thoughts wander. Behind him, he could hear the shouts from children playing, while the adults were sweating away on the fields surrounding the village. Although summer was nearly gone, the burning sun, buzzing insects and singing birds continued on without any worry. At least the woods afforded Jaskier some shade.  
  
He, once again, played through the scene from earlier in his head, cursing him anew every time he thought he said something especially stupid. Although he often looked like it, Geralt was rarely mad, just grumpy. Jaskier always liked to joke about Geralt brooding like a mother-hen. The joke wasn’t well-received, nor badly either. Even if Geralt was mad at him, the most he did was an angry growl, the punch in Posada was the exception to confirm the rule. But who knew, maybe Jaskier did fuck it all up this time.  
  
Old leaves and sticks crunched under his feet as the woods lightened and, just as promised, there was a beautiful and well-maintained garden with a little hut to the side. There was also a woman bent over one of the flowerbeds, who, after noticing approaching footsteps, stood up and quickly rubbed her hands clean on her already dirty apron.  
  
“Hello, how can I help you?” A small smile accompanied her greeting and Jaskier was already smitten with her. Her skin was tanned from the constant work outside and freckles adorned her face. A few strands of brown hair escaped from the headscarf she wore over her head, secured by a knot at the back of her head. Even though crows feet started making their home around her eyes, she still had a youthful charm.  
  
“I have a few things I need. Here”, he gave her Geralt’s note.  
  
She looked at it with squinting eyes, “Eh... I’m going to need a little help deciphering this.”  
  
“Is it that bad?” Jaskier was used to bad and nearly unreadable handwriting, Geralt’s not being the first that looked like it was written by someone having a stroke, and he isn’t going to act like his was any better, even though it probably was.  
  
“Depends, did you write this?”  
  
“No, my friend did.”  
  
“Then I don’t have to be sorry for saying it, but it's very bad. Reminds me oh how my grandfather used to write.”  
  
That would probably explain it. Although Jaskier never asked Geralt about this age, he assumed it was pretty old. A 'if he would’ve been a human, already dead' kind of old and judging by some of the events Geralt witnessed, the rise and fall of kings and queens, Jaskier wasn’t too far off with his assumptions.  
  
Somehow they never talked about the usual and mundane information one would think off, like age or family. Geralt once mentioned his brothers and that was it, Jaskier learnt his lesson of not pestering too much with more personal matters. And Geralt never asked Jaskier many questions, there was no need to, since the bard shared most information about him freely (even though he had an assumption that Geralt still didn’t know Jaskier was his stage name. However, it’ll make the moment of realisation only funnier, so Jaskier never told him about it).  
  
Just as Yanina had handed him the note back and he’d begun reading it aloud, they both heard footsteps coming closer.  
They belonged to a girl, not older than fourteen, carrying a heavy bucket which was, guessing by the sloshing sound and the wet stains on the girl's apron, full of water. Wordlessly Yanina pointed to a batch of plants and the girl slowly began to water them, careful not to spill everything on the dry earth at once.  
  
“Is that everything?”Yanina sked, once Jaskier finished reading, already moving around the garden and cutting the yellowish reseda blossoms from the stem with a sickle and a well-trained jerk of the wrist.  
  
“Yes”  
  
“Alright, is it a problem if some of the herbs are dried already?”  
  
“Oh no, that’s fine.” Or at least he thought it was.  
  
“Great, then come inside.” She gently cut off a few more blossoms and leaves and put them inside the pocket of her apron. She looked around once more, checking if she got everything and then headed to the hut.  
  
Jaskier begrudged the change of scenery. He could’ve looked at her surrounded by the colourful sea of flowers all day long, searching but never finding a blossom as pretty as the rough and gentle hands that planted it.  
It was always in moments like these, where he damned himself for never learning how to paint, wanting to catch the beauty of the moment on canvas, for fear of his words not being enough. And what a beautiful painting it would’ve been; Mother and daughter caring for their garden with loving, tender smiles on their faces and sweat collecting on their brow. It almost seemed wrong to invade such an intimate moment of their daily lives.  
Jaskier recalled an ode he read a long time ago, about a Skellige huntress spying on the goddess Freya tending to her garden and quickly falling in love with her. Back then he appreciated it for its prose and the way it made the cheeks of a young maiden flush, when he recited it to her. Nevertheless, he felt like it was only now, that he understood what the huntress truly must’ve felt.  
  
Even inside the small hut, the feeling of domestic bliss didn’t stop and Jaskier continued to observe Yanina’s hands, working by pure muscle memory. She even memorised when she had to duck beneath the dried plants hanging from the ceiling. Her smile never faltered as she chatted with him or her daughter, as the latter joined them inside. Jaskier caught himself daydreaming of experiencing this simple joy of good company every day.  
As much as it sounded like a dream, he knew it could never be more than that. He couldn’t leave his life as a wandering bard just yet. He grew restless quite fast, the winter’s cooped up in some court or at Oxenfurt already made him halfway insane. Plus, he couldn’t leave Geralt. He just couldn’t.  
  
“So, who’s your friend with the terrible handwriting?”, Yanina stopped him from further daydreaming.  
  
“Why are you asking?” Answering a question with another question, Geralt must’ve rubbed off of him.  
  
“The herbs. They’re not the ones folks usually get. Only when they truly know what they’re doing.”  
  
Jaskier thought about it for a moment. “Well, I assume he knows what he’s doing. He’s a witcher after all. And I’m his bard.”  
  
A snort came from the girl sitting opposite of him. “Never heard of a witcher having a bard.”  
  
“Then you haven’t met me, or Geralt yet.” He smiled at her, but the girl’s face quickly turned red.  
  
“Don’t be mean to our clients, Branka,” Yanina warned her own daughter, however, her grin took all seriousness from it. “What does a witcher want in a place like this anyways? Didn’t hear about any monsters roaming around.”  
  
“We do have a contract though, or at least Geralt does. She actually mentioned you to us. Do you happen to know Selyse?”  
  
“I do, she’s a good friend of mine.” Yanina stopped and turned around to face him. She stopped smiling. “It’s a tragedy what happened to her son. I wish I could’ve helped, but when the news reached me, they already gave up searching for him. It’s one of the drawbacks of living a bit off the beaten track.”  
  
“How did the two of you get to know each other?”  
  
“She helped me when I first came here. I was pregnant with Branka at the time and she also helped with the birth, without charging anything, not that I had anything to offer at that time. I’ll never forget that.  
“In return, I helped her a year later with Mikkjal. I’m in no way a trained midwife. she had to tell me the whole time what to do next, while screaming her lungs out. It must’ve been a sight to see.”, her quiet laughter turned into a sigh, “Losing him must be even worse for her than for anyone else.”  
  
“Because of her husband?”, Jaskier said.  
  
Yanina carefully looked at her daughter, both seeming lost in thoughts for a moment, before she snapped out of it and cleared her throat, turning back to her work of chopping herbs up. “You must excuse me, what was the question again?”  
  
“If losing Mikkjal was even worse for her because she already lost her husband.”  
  
“Well yes, but not only. Hers was a difficult birth and my lacking knowledge didn’t do anything to help. The umbilical cord wrapped around Mikkjal’s throat and we both thought it was too late. It was like a miracle when he began to breathe. Losing him now, after she fought so much for him to live… I can’t imagine her pain.”  
  
Jaskier let the silence settle in the room before he spoke again. “Did you know Mikkjal well?”  
  
“Not as good as Branka, if that’s what you're asking.”  
  
“Mama!”, Branka interjected, fiddling around with the hem of her apron. Her head turned red and she must’ve felt the heat in her cheeks, as she quickly looked down and tried to make herself as small as possible.  
  
Jaskier had to laugh, it was all too common for him. “Ah, you shouldn’t feel ashamed. Young love made me do more foolish things.” _Like travelling around the Continent with a moody witcher and his probably telepathic horse. _“In fact, it’s the reason why I began to write poetry and thus also the reason why I became a bard.”  
  
“Really?”, the young girl peeked up. Although her cheeks were still slightly flushed, curiosity took up most of her face now.  
  
“Indeed. But it’s a long story full of things your mother wouldn’t approve of. Like sneaking out at night and stealing one or two bottles of wine.” He knew how to sell a story so that both the daughter and the mother had to laugh.  
  
“I must ask you not to put those ideas into Branka’s head.”, she said to him and turned towards her daughter, “And don’t you dare become a bard like our guest here. I need your help not only in the garden but also once I get old and grey.” This time, her smile didn’t soften the sternness in her voice, and didn't leave a room for an argument.  
  
“To go back to my question”, Jaskier said, “Did you know Mikkjal well?”  
  
Yanina didn’t look away from Branka and when the girl didn’t make a sign to answer the question, she ordered: “Would you get us some water for tea, my dear?”  
  
“Yes, Mama.” Branka sprang up from the chair immediately and left he hut just as quickly as she’d entered it.  
  
Yanina sighed, turned towards Jaskier and, upon seeing his confused expression, decided to elaborate. “Ever since we’ve heard of the news about him, she gets sad when someone mentions him. She’s heartbroken. I guess another thing you’re knowledgeable about?”  
  
“Unfortunately. Though it rarely happened to me because of such tragic circumstances.”  
  
She hummed as an answer and reminded him of Geralt for just a moment. “Another reason I wanted her to leave was because, although she was smitten by Mikkjal, I always tended to think of him as rather... strange.”  
  
“I guess she wouldn’t be happy to hear about it.”, Jaskier interrupted.  
  
“Your guess is correct. She doesn’t need to hear it either. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Nevertheless, yes I think of him as odd. He was always a rather sickly boy and while I know this by itself isn’t anything special, his complaints were. He would complain about his bones. they constantly hurt.”  
  
“Well, a boy his age can suffer from growing pains, right?” Jaskier vaguely remembered his own aching legs, though at the time the only thing he was given was a heated waterskin and the advice to ‘man up’, which is an utterly stupid and useless advice, no matter the situation.  
  
“Yes, but not for such a long duration. He always had the same complaints, ever since he was able to articulate them.”, she interjected.  
  
“Is that the only reason why you thought of him as strange?”, Jaskier said. Even though it indeed was strange, there must’ve been more reasons.  
  
“No. The way he behaved sometimes just didn’t seem to fit his age. He acted so much older than he was”, Yanina thought carefully about her next words, “Something about the way he looked at the world and the people around him. His eyes weren’t like the ones from a child, they seemed much older. I once mentioned it to Selyse. Her reasoning was because of his fatherless upbringing. Said the boy felt like he needed to play the role of the father as well as the one of the son in the household.”  
  
“You don’t believe her?” It was a stupid question, the answer being obvious, otherwise, Yanina wouldn’t have brought it up.  
  
“At least not fully. It sounds like it makes sense, but my Branka grew up without a father too and she doesn’t feel the need to act like one. Sure, she’s a girl, but still. I wouldn’t have raised her any differently if she were a boy. The best way I can justify my feelings towards Mikkjal is just with that, my feelings. I know it’s not sensible, but my gut feeling has never failed me before.”  
  
“I understand. Is there a way I can talk to Branka alone? Not that I don’t trust you, however, I want her to speak to me without her having to fear saying too much if you know what I mean.”  
  
Yanina snorted, it lifted Jaskier’s heart several paces. “I do. I know it’s hard to imagine, but I was young too, once a long time ago.”  
  
“Oh, it can’t be that long ago.”, with the shift of the conversation going from purposeful questioning to more casual chattering, Jaskier felt like a fish tossed back into the water. Although he liked all sorts of conversations (even the one-sided ones, he had to get used to having them rather often, but not talking enough for two never was a problem he suffered from), he simply enjoyed the ones about happier topics more, for obvious reasons. He liked the view of smiling faces more than of frowning ones.  
  
“You’re a charmer.”, Yanina said, grinning.  
  
“That’s a nice way to put it.”, Jaskier countered, grinning even more. He got up and went over to her, she stepped back.  
  
“My heart belongs to someone else already.”  
  
Jaskier’s smile faltered only for a few moments, before it was back to its previous state. “Sometimes the heart doesn’t need to be involved.”  
  
“For me it does, so I must say no. Sorry.”, she admitted once again. Jaskier didn’t like the look of pity in her eyes.  
  
“You mustn’t apologize. If you think my heart couldn’t bear such a kind and gentle rejection, you must think of my life as fairly boring.”  
  
Yanina smiled again and this time, after she uttered her disinterest in his advantages, his heart beat less intense at the sight of it. His feelings for her were dampened, and he finally saw her as what she was. Not an overly romanticised version of herself, that his mind came up with, but as the wise woman and mother she was, full of kindness and well-meaning advice for anyone willing to listen.  
  
“You do have to tell me all those stories one day.”  
  
Jaskier was just about to begin telling one, when the door opened again. Like before, it was Branka carrying a bucket, this time out of copper, and she slowly heaved it onto the workspace of the kitchen and began searching for something. The warm light of the setting sun shone through the open door.  
  
“Is it this late already?”, Jaskier asked, “Time must truly pass faster in good company. I’m sorry, but I have to return to the village before nightfall. I made a promise to the innkeeper to play every night as long as I stay.” He sauntered over the door, before turning around once more, bowing dramatically and making both women smile.  
  
“Wait!”, Yanina called out before he could disappear, “Let Branka lead you back, at least until the main road. People tend to get lost quickly in these parts.”  
  
Branka looked just as surprised by the request as Jaskier, differently from Jaskier though, she couldn’t see the wink her mother gave him. Quickly Branka stopped pouring water from the copper bucket into the kettle she’d finally found and walked outside past Jaskier, yelling a goodbye to her mother.  
  
He followed her silently and after some time, Jaskier assumed it was to make sure they were out of earshot of her mother, Branka began talking. “So you and the witcher are looking for Mikkjal?”, she asked hesitantly.  
  
“Yes, Mikkjals’ mother hired Geralt to do so.”  
  
“And why arent’ you with the witcher at the moment?”  
  
“He though it would be better if we split up, you know, to cover more grounds.”, Jaskier quickly lied. He believed himself to be a good liar, however, he couldn’t judge by Branka’s passive face if she bought into it or not.  
  
Despite looking like a younger version of her mother, she didn’t share the same welcoming smile wit Yanina. Instead, her daughter had tightly knit eyebrows and an overall look of shyness to her, so it always looked as if she thought every word through before she said it out loud, which may be true, since a comfortable silence settled between the two before she spoke up again. “Do you think Mikkjal’s still alive?”  
  
Jaskier dreaded that question. No matter what he answered it seemed wrong and a small voice inside his head, which sounded suspiciously like Geralt during their lunch today, said it was best to stay as honest as possible with the little girl. “I honestly don’t know. I hope he is, just like everyone else is. And Geralt wouldn’t be so eager to find him if it was completely hopeless.”  
  
Jaskier hoped the small voice inside his head was happy with this answer, since it was neither the full truth nor a lie. He sincerely believed for Mikkjal to not be wandering around the living anymore, and the chances for his survival were as good as non-existent. However, he didn’t have any evidence other than common sense. And sometimes, common sense could be wrong.  
  
The following silence was shorter, not because Branka thought of her next words faster, but because a quiet sob escaped her. “I’m sorry.”, she added quickly.  
  
Jaskier, who never was a fan of people apologizing for having emotions (a lesson he constantly tried to teach Geralt), stopped and gently rested a hand on her shoulder. If she were younger, he would’ve crouched down to be able to speak to her eye to eyes, but although Branka was quite short, she was thirteen and probably would’ve thought of such an act as embarrassing. “Hey, don’t be sorry. This must be a very difficult time for you. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed.”  
Jaskier’s attempt at calming her down only resulted in more tears.  
  
“It’s just… I haven’t told this to anyone and I feel so horrible for staying quiet. Maybe they could’ve found him.”  
  
“Okay, calm down first. Take a couple of deep breaths.”, he exaggerated his breathing for her to mimic it, “Now, tell me what exactly are you talking about?”  
  
“I’ve met him. Mikkjal.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“Just a couple nights ago. I didn’t know he was missing until yesterday, nobody told us anything.” Her voice was still quivering, full of guilt and regret.  
  
“It’s alright. Could you tell me what happened?” This could mean the boy was still alive.  
  
“I first met him the day he went missing. We always meet at our spot in the woods. However, that day, he didn’t come. I waited and waited all day long. Didn’t see a trace of him. Suddenly I felt like I was being watched. I assumed it was Mikkjal and called out for him. No one answered. Then, I heard something and fear took me over. I ran home, without looking back. It was only after supper, when I’d gathered enough courage to go looking for him again. And there he was, sitting on the rock, waiting for me. He even had the audacity to tease me about always being late.”, she smiled at the last part. A pleasant change from her otherwise tearful eyes.  
  
“What happened then?”, Jaskier said and the blush on her cheeks was answer enough for him, an all too common sight and experience from his younger self, when he still had the ability to feel ashamed for his desires. Though she continued talking.  
  
“At first, everything seemed normal, nothing out of the ordinary. Then, he suddenly started talking about running away and starting somewhere new, together with me.”  
  
“Aren’t you both a tad too young for something like that?” Jaskier wasn’t in the best position to advise on such manners. Gods, he knew how many people he told the same pretty lie to when he was younger, sometimes even following through with the plans until they were caught.  
  
“I thought that as well and even told him so. At first, I thought it was just a rebellious streak. He sometimes has those, constantly complaining about how he doesn’t want to be treated like a child. But this time, it was more than that. I saw it in his eyes. He was dead serious. I told him no, someone had to look after my mother and if not me, who will? It’s the same situation with him and his mother. We got into a small argument. I got frustrated and ran away. He screamed after me that I should at least think about it.  
“Two nights later, I saw him again. I went to ur spot every day, for as long as I could. Mama wasn’t happy about it. I only saw him one more time, though. I was just about to go home when he appeared out of nowhere.”  
  
“Did something seem different about him?”, Jaskier interrupted. No kid was staying that long in the woods and looked the same as a couple days before.  
  
“Yes, his clothes were all dirty and his hair a mess, though that wasn’t anything unusual for him. I still was worried about him. He was pale and looked like he was in pain, though I couldn’t see a wound or anything like that. I asked him about it, he said I should just forget about it.”  
  
“Your mother said that he often suffered from pains caused by his growing.”  
  
“I know. This time, however, it just seemed so bad. I’ve never seen him like that before. I guess it also was the reason why he was so irritated with me when I refused again to run away with him. He seemed much more desperate than before. Said he needed to leave and that he couldn’t stay here any longer. I asked him what had happened, maybe he had an ugly fight with his mother or something like that. He just said it was too complicated to explain and that I should just trust him. He got angry.  
“I was afraid of him. for the first time. He never acted like that before, even if he was mad. This time, everything just seemed so intense and I felt scared and humiliated and like a rabbit just about to be mauled to death by a fox. It must’ve shown on my face, since he tried to calm me down, which only made me more scared. He got angry again and being the coward I was, I ran away. I didn’t come back the next day. And then I heard that he had been missing all this time.”  
Tears, once again, overflowed her eyes and made their way down her cheeks. This time, Jaskier kneeled before her and put both of his hands on her shoulders. She took him by surprise and hugged him. “I don’t want our last conversation to be a fight. He was scared too, I felt it, but he didn’t tell me anything. I wish I could’ve helped him, maybe then he would still be at home.”, she cried into his shoulder as he gently traced a circle on her back with his hands.  
  
“Nobody’s blaming you for anything.”, he tried to think of the next logical step, “We’re going to take our time, calm down a bit and then you could show me the way to the spot you’ve mentioned. Is that okay?”  
  
She only nodded her head.  
  
It took her a couple of moments to gather herself again, wiping away the last couple of stray tears and snot. Jaskier took pity in her. True, the first love rarely holds on for a long amount of time and more often than not ends in in broken hearts and tearful eyes, but this case was just heartbreaking. He felt miserable just watching the small lady.  
  
She looked up at him again and indicated with a nod that she was ready now. Immediately they went off the path and into the thicket of the woods. They mostly stayed quiet, she only spoke to indicate spots on the muddy forest floor which weren’t safe. The forest floor was, despite the dry and hot weather outside of it, muddy and slippery and Jaskier hoped his shoes wouldn’t get stuck in it.  
  
If every now and then a sob escaped Branka’s throat, they didn’t mention it.  
  
They arrived at a small, mostly dry clearing with a couple of mossy rocks big enough to function as seats. There was nothing special about it, it looked pretty much like all the woods Jaskier had even been in. Geralt would have probably disagreed, seeing all kinds of small evidence which made this place unique from the others and which would help them on the search for Mikkjal, but Geral wasn't here, and Jaskier didn’t have anything close to the keen senses of witchers.  
He honestly didn’t know what to do from here on out. It sounded smart enough in his head to go to the last place the boy was seen, he saw Geralt do the same to track a monster on every hunt he was allowed to accompany the witcher on. Nevertheless, his brain didn’t think of what to do once he got there. Foresight was never one of his talents. Neither was reading tracks. According to Geralt the only thing Jaskier was good at involving tracks, was making them. So now, he was stuck in the middle of the woods with a girl who put all her hopes in finding her boyfriend on him.  
  
He was very close to calling it quits when he heard something. Although he didn’t know what this something was, it couldn’t have been a person, for no human could have made a sound like that.  
  
It was gut-wrenching, made his skin crawl and his heart twist and drop to his feet. It sounded like a wolf’s cry and the laughter of a fox, like the squealing of pigs right before slaughter and echoed in the air like the outcry of a bearded vulture high up int the mountains.  
  
Once both of them had recovered from the state of initial shock, Jaskier turned to Branka. She looked even more terrified than him, which he didn’t believe was possible. He slowly stepped towards her. “You stay here. Or better, go home, don’t turn back and lock the door behind you. Understood?” She nodded. “Good, I’ll check out whatever the fuck that was.”  
  
It wasn’t a good idea, and as soon as Branka disappeared into the direction of her save haven, he felt the charade of chivalry that he played for her fall and the hair on his skin begin to rise. He formed fists to hopefully stop his shaking hands as he put one foot after the other.__

__  
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* * *

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It took a long time and a mixture of begging, pestering and a good bottle of Vodka for Geralt to finally tell Jaskeir his part of the story.  
  
Just after he left the bard sitting in the inn, he went to Roach. He already made a plan of what he would do today, and tending to his horse was at the top of his list. Afterwards he should pay a visit to this Yontek, the hunter Selyse was talking about.  
He rarely trusted anyone, even the most competent stablehand with his trusty companion and therefore felt a strong urge to make sure she was doing alright. He loved that mare like Jaskier loved his lute. The only real difference was that Jaskier prefered to monologue or write songs about his problems and his lute _just happens_ to be right next to him, or on his lap, and Geralt _actively_ went to Roach to speak to her about his hardships. Geralt would, of course, always deny this, saying he simply wanted to check up on her, but Jaskeir and Roach both knew better.  
  
So he went into the stables, checked Roach’s tack and the mare herself to make sure the stableboy did a good enough job (it was tolerable), all while muttering to Roach. “I don’t know anymore. Jaskier’s a bard, they’re used to telling tales, I know this by now. But how could he simply reject any kind of investigation into this? There has to be more than meets the eye, right? A boy doesn’t suddenly disappear from one day to the other.”  
  
The only answer he got, was Roach bumping her nose into his shoulder and looking at him expectantly. “I don’t have anything for you.” She huffed. “Jaskier’s spoiling you. An easy trick to earn your affection and you’re falling for it.”  
  
With a few parting pats on her neck, Geralt made his way to the outskirts of the town, where he hoped to find the hunter’s home.  
  
How could he accuse his horse for falling for the bard, when he did the very same? He didn’t like to admit it, however, despite his best efforts, he grew fond of Jaskier. Or maybe Geralt had just got soft and desperate. He heard of weirder tales about lonely men and what odd company they tolerated, simply for the sake of having someone to talk to who wasn’t a horse. Jaskier was odd in his own way, his insistence on fashionable, rather than practical clothes and how he always threw oils and salts into the bathwater had earned him quite a few stares from Geralt (even if he had to agree that the smell of said oils was, in the very least, more pleasant than the stale air, filled with the stink of rotting linen of whatever inn they stayed at), but Jaskier wasn’t odd company. He was good company.  
True, at first Geralt was annoyed at Jaskier’s inability to set up camp, or even a fire (and he honestly was surprised by how far the bard had managed to come without such knowledge, since travelling from Oxenford to Posada was quite a distance, especially on foot), but he proved to be a quick learner, with an even quicker wit and, unfortunately for Geralt, mouth. This combination led to an unspoken understanding and agreement of when to stop pushing the other’s buttons and just let the subject pass.  
  
So it was only natural that their fight today annoyed him. He knew sending Jaskier off was a bad idea, since he would start to complain about missing all the action the minute he came back. He was even more annoyed at himself, for not being able to stay calm in such a situation, but the thought of this young boy dying, before Geralt could do anything against it, made him feel useless and miserable. He wanted the boy to be safe, and not just because for the sake of the contract and the pay, if one could even call the meagre twenty crowns Selyse had offered him the evening before that. Knowing himself, he would probably decline it too.  
  
Fuck, he really grew too soft.  
  
Clearing his head of such thoughts, Geralt neared the hut and knocked on it. Nobody was home, but a quick look through one of the windows at least confirmed his assumption who the owner of the hut was. Who else would hang various bows, some with a broken string waiting to be repaired, pelts and antlers on their wall?  
  
Walking around the house revealed a small dirt track into the woods. Having no other clue where else the hunter could be, Geralt decided to follow it. His investigation could’ve been easier if he just asked somebody from town, however, he tried to avoid any unnecessary conversations with people, something Jaskier would often tease him about. It wasn’t that Geralt disliked talking, even if the bard assumed this was the case, but Geralt had enough experiences with unwelcoming townsfolk to stop trying. He was tired of people spitting in his direction.  
  
Thankfully, the hunter, Yontek, didn’t seem like one of those people. After walking along the path for a bit Geralt managed to hear carefully placed footsteps, breathing and the heartbeat of a human and followed it, finding Yontek only a short amount of time later. Even though the hunter missed his shot out of the shock Geralt gave him with his sudden appearance (sneaking around had become second nature to the witcher a long time ago) Yontek still looked grateful to see the him.  
  
“Good day, master witcher. You’re right on cue.”, Yontek called out.  
  
He was about the same age as Selyse, maybe a bit older, but with sharp, youthful eyes surrounded by crows feet. Yellowish teeth hid behind a grey beard.  
  
“You must be Yontek” the man nodded in confirmation “Did Selyse tell you I was coming?”  
  
“OH, she must’ve already told you about Mikkjal then.”, his face saddened at the memory, “It’s a tragedy what happened. Am I right to assume that she hired you to search for him?”  
  
“It seems nobody else wanted to do it.”  
  
Yontek became defensive at the comment. “I know it seems harsh, and Melitele knows I wished I could’ve helped her better. She didn’t deserve another tragedy in her life. But the chances of Mikkjal surviving are just so slim. I don’t want to think about it.  
“You must know, there’s something in these woods. That’s why I wanted to speak with someone of your trade sooner rather than later. I would pay you for these services, of course”, he was visibly worried and Geralt didn’t know if the sweat on Yontek’s face was due to the hot weather or fear of whatever the hunter talked about. Guessing by the smallest strip of uneasiness Geralt could smell sticking to Yontek’s skin, it was the latter.  
“I know you’re looking for Mikkjal at the moment, but maybe searching this monster would lead to him as well, one way or another.”  
  
“It’s not a pretty thought. I wanted to seek you out because of a similar one. Selyse mentioned wolves roaming the forest. I guess this is only half the truth.”  
  
“Sadly, yes.”  
  
“Could you tell me more about this monster?”, Geralt asked.  
  
“I can certainly try. Never saw the thing myself, but I did make some notes about odd things happening and came to the most logical conclusion.”  
  
Geralt was sceptical. He knew from experience that people liked to jump to conclusions quickly and claim that everything bad happened because of some kind of curse or monster. “Can you define these ‘odd things’ more clearly?”  
  
“I don’t know how much I still remember, you must know, I’m not getting any younger and my memory isn’t what it used to be. It’s why I wrote it all down in my notes. They’re at my house, though.”  
  
Geralt motioned him to lead the way. They didn’t talk on the way back, the narrow path was only wide enough for one person. Geralt couldn’t tell if the silence was pleasant or not.  
  
Inside, the hut was sparsely furnished with a focus on the pragmatic, though still chaotic. The only decore were the several sets of antlers on the wall, though the thick layer of dust on them was a clear sign of their neglect. With a quick stride Yontek walked to the table, and after quickly searching through the pile of tools and hunting utensils on top of it, fished out a leather-bound book and began flicking through it.  
  
The book had obviously seen better days, the cover splattered with several stains from different origins, only a few of them from ink. Geralt bit the inside of his cheek to hide the smile slowly creeping on his face at the thought of Jaskier and his theatrics whenever something happened to his composition book. the bard always took meticulous care of it, just like with his lute. However, Geralt once sneaked a glance in it and was surprised that Jaskier was able understood his notes at all. The whole page was covered in writing, words crossed though and rewritten, arrows connecting junks of text with another on the next page. “It’s called the creative process, Geralt.”, Jaskier tried to explain to him, but he just shook his head and smiled.  
  
In that case, Yontek’s book was the complete opposite of Jaskier’s. The cover was in horrible condition, and even some pages looked like they’ve seen some sort of abuse, mostly through water damage. However, the writing was very well organized and reminded Geralt of some sort of diary.  
Yontek was quick to explain. “I always try to write down what I hunt and how much. I don’t want to overhunt anything, wouldn’t do anybody any good. That’s what the young hunters today don’t understand, they never learn when to stop. What about you witchers? Do you do something similar?”  
  
“We rarely make notes on our hunts. Only if we encounter an undocumented kind of monster, a new mutation of it or something like that. But never how much we hunt. You could say the goal of witchers is to overhunt monsters, since we fight for a world without them, for a more peaceful world”, he thought about his words for a moment, “However, this makes it sound more poetic than it is. We’re not like the knights in shining armour in fairytales. We do it for coin, not because of some sense of justice or security.”  
  
Yontek only nodded his head, and, when he finally found the pave he was looking for, exclaimed an “Aha, there it is.”  
  
The page looked just like the other ones before, the only difference being a quick sketch of what Geralt assumed to be some sort of tracks.  
  
“This was four of days ago. I saw more animal carcasses than usual, some devoured to the bone, others only lying there, guts open but barely touched. From there on out it only increased. I came to the conclusion that it had to be a monster.”  
  
“A sudden increase in the wolf population wouldn’t make any sense, it’s too late in the year for it.”, Geralt murmured, more to himself than to Yontek. The hunter still answered.  
  
“That’s what I thought as well. Two days after my first discovery Sobek, the shepherd came to me, told me one of his sheep got killed by wolves. Took a look at it.”  
  
“Let me guess, it wasn’t wolves.”  
  
Yontek only pointed on the crudely dawn tracks and Geralt quickly tried to think of an occasion when he saw similar ones. It looked like an elongated pawprint and Geralt didn’t find a complete match. It could be from a werewolf, but to be completely sure, he needed more clues. Nevertheless, he now understood why Yontek was so convinced it had to be a monster. No wolf would could leave those.  
  
“Any ideas?”, Yontek asked.  
  
“I would have to see them directly, nothing against your drawing skills, Yontek, but…”  
  
“I understand. I’m afraid the tracks aren’t going to be there anymore, with all the sheep running around.”, Yontek said, when a knock on the door interrupted them. Before anyone could even reach the door, the man knocking outside already opened it. Well, it was more a boy than a man, heavily breathing as if running the whole way to the hunter’s hut. Between heavy gasps of air, the boy stammered: “It came back. Two more are dead.”  
  
The boy, only a few years older than Mikkjal by the looks of it, was the shepherd’s son, Mirko. Mirko finally calmed down enough to breathe normally again. However, he was still wary of Geralt, no matter how well he tried to hide it. His cautious glances back at Geralt, as he led both the witcher and Yontek to the meadow, his tense shoulders and most of all his smell was giving it away.  
Geralt was used to it and was glad that he worst any inhabitant of this village did until this point was observing him carefully out of the corner of their eyes and ignoring him when he tried to speak to them. Maybe Jaskier’s songs really did make an impact. Or maybe the rumour of a particular bard who goes feral whenever somebody tried to speak too badly of witchers was spreading faster than Geralt would’ve liked, not that he wasn’t grateful for it, it was quite fun to watch Jaskier brawl with some guy twice the size of him (and the bard was surprisingly good at it), but sometimes Geralt wished Jaskeir would do the same as he did and simply try to ignore it as good as possible.  
  
“You’re a witcher, right?”, Mirko said, his voice only slightly breaking. Geralt liked to think it wasn’t because Mirkio was afraid of him, but because of the boy’s age.  
  
“That’s right.”, Geralt answered.  
  
“My Da told me we had a witcher in town. He used to tell me, that if I didn’t behave, he would hand me to one.”  
  
It’s a common enough threat parents tell their children. Geralt never understood how anyone could joke about it. Still, he tried to lighten the mood a bit, make the boy less tense. “You don’t have to worry anymore, you’re too old.”  
  
Mirko looked first at him, then at Yontek with big eyes. Guess lightening the mood was more difficult than Geralt thought, and the rest of the short walk was filled with silence. Although he saw the small smirk on Yontek’s face.  
  
They arrive at the scene and, just like Mirko described, two sheep laid there, if one could still call the sad pile of bones and flesh sheep. The dry grass around the carcasses was dyed red from the blood. The hot sun sucked out any moisture from the ground, leaving behind nothing more than a dark stain. Geralt could see where the monster walked along, the tracks slightly unclear but enough for him to follow. If he was lucky, whatever killed the sheep still had some blood on it, which would make the whole thing even easier. Behind him, he overheard Yontek and Mirko talking.  
  
“Why did you come so late and not first thing in the morning? Were you sneaking off again?”, Yontek asked Mirko, a hint of teasing in his voice. Mirko didn’t hear it though and grew defensive, so maybe it wasn’t entirely Geralt’s fault that the child didn’t get his joke from before.  
  
“No! But the sheep behaved so weirdly this morning. All pressed up together in the shed. We didn’t even know why, it was so hot inside of it. Da was afraid they would overheat, and we tried the whole morning to get them to go outside. Finally managed to do so, that’s when we saw it.” He nodded towards the carcasses.  
  
“The shed was open in the night?”, Yontek asked.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Could someone have opened it for them?”, Geralt chimed in.  
Mirko looked at him with big eyes once again, before answering. “I guess. But Da’s said the sheep would've managed on their own if they all pressed against the gate. Said they did it before during some nasty storms. It isn’t a very sturdy gate.”  
  
“Did you hear anything in the night?”  
  
Mirko answered faster this time. “That’s also strange, we didn’t hear a thing. Not even the bleating of the sheep. Or at least I didn’t.”  
  
Geralt nodded, muttered a small thanks to Mirko and finally followed the faint trail he saw before towards the edge of the field. There was blood smeared on the stone fence. It looked as if the hand of a figure from a crude children’s drawing left a bloody imprint. If one squinted, it looked close enough to a human hand, however, the fingers were all exceptionally different sizes and the palm too long to look natural.  
  
Yontek followed him from behind. “So, any clue what it might be?”  
  
“It’s bipedal, has something akin to human hands and eats at least two sheep in one night. I want to say it’s a werewolf, but I’m not sure. It would help immensely if you happened to find some unknown fur or scartches on trees or anything like that. They like to mark their territory like that.”  
  
Yontek sighed deeply, leaning on the fence, making sure not to touch the bloody handrint, even if it was already dry. “Sadly no. But…”  
  
“But?”, Geralt looked up.  
  
“I can’t tell you here, don’t want prying ears to hear it. Shouldn’t we follow the tracks anyway?”  
  
Geralt reluctantly agreed. Yontek’s unsure gaze made him think twice of the hunter’s otherwise friendly demeanour.  
  
The trail led into the forest, the trees casting them in cooling shadows as the sun slowly made its way down to meet the horizon.  
  
“You wanted to tell me something.”, said Geralt.  
  
“Right.”, Yontek tensed up a bit, as if something was still keeping him from saying it out loud, “About the monster. Something very similar happened here years ago. I’m sure Selyse told you about her husband, Laslow, right?”  
  
“Mmhh. Let me guess, it wasn’t wovles that got him.”  
  
“It was whatever monster hautned our village back then. It was almost like now, started with bigger animals though. It got clsoer and closer to the villlage, killed a couple of sheep until the shepherd, Laslow and I had enough. Decided to camp in the woods, not far from here, to catch whatever the killer was. That’s when, in the middle of the night, we heard this wretched sound, indescribable. It still haunts me sometimes in my dreams. Laslow went after it, I was too slow. Spent the rest of the night searching for him, finally found him at dawn.” Yontek’s face grew paler and paler, the longer he spoke and Geralt could smell the reek of fear, heavy and sticky like sweat, on his skin. “He didn’t look much different than those sheep. I couldn’t bear tell Selyse the truth, about the slaughter of her husband and my inability to stop it. The attacks stopped after that night, and I didn’t see the harm in telling her it was wolves. The whole village slept more peacefully afterwards than ever before.”  
  
Neither Geralt, nor Yontek said something for the following moments, even though it was for different reasons. Yontek’s behaviour so long ago reminded Geralt of Jaskier and their fight today, to distract him from continuing this train of thought as well as to stop him from judging the hunter too harshly, he was only human and therefore flawed afterall, Geralt mentally recalled every Bestiary entry he could remember. Yontek was silently consumed by guilt for not acting any different back then.  
  
“Was it wrong to lie?”  
  
“I’m a witcher, I don’t know.” Geralt continued following the tracks.  
  
The monster, according to its tracks, didn’t seem steady on its two feet, it was staggering and sometimes had to use one of its crude parodies of human hands to keep it from falling over. The muddy forest floow made it easier to follow.  
  
Finally, Geralt found something like a burrow, big enough for a child to hide in. At first, Geralt thought it was impossible that the burrow belonged to the monster. According to the footprints, it must’ve been bigger, but the trails gathering at the entrance of it all unmistakably led either in our out of the hole. “So it can’t be a werewolf.”  
  
“What did you say?”, Yontek asked.  
  
To be honest, Geralt had mostly ignored him throughout the short trek through the woods. After travelling with Jaskier longe enough, he learned to push the sound of footsteps following him to the back of his mind. or at least then, when he knew someone was accompanying him.  
  
“A werewolf normally doesn’t have a burrow. Especially not such a small one.” Geralt sighed, it was a long time ago sice he couldd’t identify the mosnter before the fight. It was an unnecessary risk he didn’t like to take. “Yontek, I want you to go home. Now. It’s for your own good.” He tried to leave no room for an argument.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“To be truthful with you, I don’t quite know what this is and I don’t like that. So go home, wihtout any kind of detour and advice the people you meet on your way to lock their doors tonight.”  
  
Yontek nodded and turned around without any kind of protest. However, Geralt stopped him, before he was completely out of sight. “If I don’t return tomorrow morning, please go and find Jaskier, the bard, in the inn. Tell him what happened and that I died. And fill it up with as many details as you can. ”  
  
The hunter looked a bit confused at his sentimental request, nevertheless, he nodded and continued his path, just like Geralt did his. It was not long after, when Geralt heard a gut-wrenching outcry. A witcher isn’t supposed to be afraid, and Geralt would never admit that he ever was afraid, he had seen too much of the world already. The last time he felt pure fear slowly creeping into his blood and spreading throughout his whole body was during the trials. This scream was filled with agony in its purest form and it reminded him too much fo his own comfort of way back when. He ran towards the source, his silver sword already drawn. And if he clenched it more than he usually did, nobody was there to testify it.

  


* * *

  


Jaskier was sure that if he would survive this endeavour, whatever this endeavour was exactly, he would be stuck in the woods forever and die of starvation. He already lost the direction from where he came from and just decided to walk forwards towards, what he hoped to be, the source of the hellish outcry.  
  
A thick silence full of tension wrapped around the forest, as if every living creature held its breath to see what happened next. Even Jaskier tried to quiet down his nervous breathing, tried to only step on soft moss to stifle his footsteps. The heat, together with the gathered dampness of the forest, was oppressive and pushed down on him. The sun behind his back extended every shadow to an uncomfortable length, as if every branch and every root stretched to reach and snatch him as he walked passed them.  
  
There.  
  
He heard a sob like a child’s trying to stay as silent as possible, to not disturb the sleeping siblings next to it.  
  
A sniffle.  
  
A moan, not like a child’s anymore, more like a wild animal with its leg inside a snare, the wire cutting deep into the flesh.  
  
The Jaskier saw it, not child, not animal. Something in between and nothing alike at the same time. A monster like he’d never seen or ever heard of before. And he felt pity.  
Pity for the bastardization of a human in front of it.  
As if someone allowed a child to play god and create life.  
As if a sorcerer decided to crack a bad joke about necromancy by stretching skin across a mixture of different skeletons, each bone an almost comically different size than the last.  
  
The creature had fallen and then slowly crawled towards a tree, resting with its back against it, trying to hide its own grotesque and nude body from the world. Arms and legs dirtied by mud and some leaves still sticking to the skin.  
Its feet were elongated, the toes all pointing in a different direction, akin to a hand with its fingers spread, and shaped like the talons of a bird. Walking on them seemed impossible.  
The monster was underfed, the hip bones jutted out and Jaskier could easily count each rib. The shoulders were disproportionately large compared to the head, just like the forearms seemed too long in comparison to its upper arms. Or maybe it was just a trick, since the hand seemed to elongate the whole arm with its wiry fingers, which were formed like hooks. Jaskier didn’t know if the white he saw were claws, pale skin or bone breaking through the flesh, growing faster than the body could keep up with and only leaving a mess of dark, dried blood.  
  
The part which disturbed him the most was its head. Like a child’s, with a mop of dark, matted hair, ears sticking out of it, brown eyes red from crying and still overflowing with tears, snot running out of its equally red nose. The mouth was framed by blood, the teeth that weren’t missing were sharp and reminded Jaskier of the scar he earned from a particularly vicious guard dog.  
  
The heaving chest almost looked as if it was collapsing any moment now. The poor thing looked afraid and in pain and Jaskier could do nothing against it, as he stood there frozen in shock from the sight before him.  
  
“Jaskier!” an all too familiar deep voice called out from behind him. Geralt, sword in hand, approached him and the creature, “What are you doing here? Stay back.”  
  
But even the stoic witcher, who’d already seen all kinds of ugliness the world had to offer, both human and monstrous, stopped in his track to look at the creature before him. It tried digging its back more into the tree, its legs bumped together and it cried out in pain. The skin was already turning yellowish, a precursor of a forming bruise and Jaskier suddenly understood why its skin had patches of blue and purple on it. It was as delicate as a flower, as porcelain, and it was dropped in the middle of this harsh world.  
  
Its whimpers sounded like when Geralt sharpened his swords on a grindstone.  
  
Jaskier felt its helplessness and wondered if Geralt felt the same, like the ache in one’s nose shortly before the first tears are shed.  
  
The witcher kneeled down, laid his sword on the ground. “Mikkjal?”  
  
A sob escaped the poor creature’s mouth. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” It was a child’s voice and at the same time, it was not. Almost as if two people screamed over one another, one an innocent boy, the other something incredibly old, feral.  
  
“Are you Mikkjal?”, Geralt asked again, adapting the softer tone he often used for kids.  
  
“That’s what they called me, but I’m only what’s left of him.”  
  
“What do you mean?”, Jaskier finally managed to get out of his shock.  
  
“Mikkjal died the day he was born,” Jaskeir remembered what Yanina told him, about Mikkjal’s difficult birth. “I took his place instead and was raised with his name.”  
  
Geralt slightly tightened his grip around his sword again, his voice losing its softness. “What are you?”  
  
“If only I knew!”, this time, Mikkjal sounded just like the frustrated child he ought to have been, “I don’t know when my existence started, nor who gave birth to me, if I was ever born in the first place. My earliest memory is older than any kingdom, I was there at the conjunction and before it. When the first tree grew its first leaf. I don’t know what I am, nor if I should be feared or not. I’ve wandered this earth aeons and _still_ haven't figured out any answers about myself.”  
  
“Did you always have a form like this?”, Geralt said.  
  
“No, this is the first time. Before, I was only seen as a shadow. I was the shiver down people’s back and the feeling of being watched when nobody was there.”  
  
“You said you took Mikkjal’s place, what do you mean by that?” Geralt’s voice was back to its usual, serious gruffness.  
  
“I roamed these lands in the night, when suddenly I felt it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Love. Love like I’ve never felt before. It was my mother’s love for a son, who would never be able to accept it. But I was there. I only needed to smell its sweet scent once and already grew greedy. I wanted it and I needed it. So I did what I never did before, not knowing if my plan was even possible. But it was. I slipped into his little, lifeless body and breathed. It hurt and I cried out, however, nobody expected anything different from a newborn. Little did I know it would never stop hurting.”  
  
Jaskier cleared his throat, afraid that otherwise his voice would fail him. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“This body”, Mikkjal said and lifted his arms, only to wince in pain, ”wasn’t made for something like me. Or I wasn’t made for something like it, since I’ve never had a physical body before. I felt everything, all the time and still feel everything. I feel my heartbeat echoing through my body, the blood rushing through it. How my lungs are filled with the cold sharp burn of air, how the bile inside me eats at my stomach walls. How my hair grows through my skin, like a reversed needle prick. My joints rubbing into each other witch each and every movement I make.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”, Jaskier said, he pitied whatever Mikkjal truly was.  
  
“I don’t need your false empathy. You will never understand my suffering, how it feels.”  
  
“I think I have an idea.”, Geralt said, and although he looked directly at Mikkjal, his eyes seemed distant.  
  
“You don’t!”, Mikkjal yelled, “You don’t know what it feels like to lose all control over your body and turn into a monster. I was happy! I had a family, it was small but I had one! I finally had a mother, someone who would care for me and love me unconditionally. I had friends and a future not filled with loneliness and despair. I knew who I was! Until my own body turned against me and prohibited this life from me.”  
  
The child was back to crying again and the next time Geralt spoke up, his voice was soft and understanding. “I know it seems hard to believe, but you’re not the only one who felt that way. Fortunately, it stopped for me. I can’t imagine how it must be to feel this way every day.”  
  
“Exactly!”, the boy spitted out, “You can’t. And it’s only getting worse.”  
  
Silence filled the forest once again, only interrupted by a sniffle or a sob from Mikkjal now and then.  
  
“I could try and help you.”, Geralt said and all eyes fell onto his sword. Silver for monsters.  
  
“I’m afraid. I don’t know what will happen afterwards, if I will go back to my existence from before, or if I vanish completely.”, Mikkjal confessed.  
  
“Nobody does.”, Jaskier spoke out, “There’s only one way to figure it out.” He only realised the tone of finality in his statement as it was followed by a pregnant pause, nobody dared to speak a word. Jaskier focused on the shakingly rising and sinking of Mikkjal’s small fragile chest.  
  
“What’s your name?”, Mikkjal asked, his voice seemed steadier now.  
  
“I’m Geralt of Rivia, a witcher.”  
  
“I’m the bard Jaskier.” He didn’t know if the question was also directed at him, but answering seemed like the right thing to do.  
  
Mikkjal smiled slightly, his blood-smeared lips, with canines protruding out of it, looked gruesome and out of place on the small boy’s face. “My mother would always threaten to hand me to a witcher if I didn’t behave. But I knew it was an empty threat, she loved me too much. Please, don’t tell her that I’m not her son. I know lying is bad, but I don’t want her memory of Mikkjal to be tainted. She deserves so much more. And tell Branka that I’ll wait for her, just like I always did. And tell Yontek that I’m grateful for all the hunting lessons he gave me, even though I sometimes sneaked away from them.”  
  
“Is that all you wish from us?”, Jaskier said.  
  
“It is. Thank you, Geralt and Jaskier.”  
  
These were Mikkjal’s last words. After uttering them, he nodded towards Geralt, who carefully raised his sword and placed it right between two ribs. Mikkjal’s eyes filled with tears once again as he felt his hot blood trickling down his chest. He closed his eyes as his tears made their way down his cheeks, cleaning a clear path in the mud and dried blood on his skin.  
  
Geralt carefully pulled his sword out of the boy’s body and stood up. He didn’t turn around to face Jaskier, his eyes still on the body in front of him. Even though both men knew the body before him didn’t belong to a child, but to a creature unlike any other, it was hard to see this action as anything else but murder or, at best, a mercy killing.”There’s a hut, not far from here, on the edge of the woods. Just keep walking to your right. The hunter that lives there, Yontek, wake him up and tell him I sent you and that he should start digging a grave next to Laslow’s. Make it deep, so that nobody ever tries to dig it up again. We must finish this before sunrise.”  
  
“Alright.”, Jaskier murmured. He didn't question why Geralt was staying behind, why they couldn’t leave this godsdamn forest side by side. He was thankful for the direction Geralt gave him and relieved to flee this tragic scene and hopefully never enter a foot inside these woods again.  
  
Throughout his walk back to the village the animals remained silent as if they were still unsure if the danger had passed or not. Or as if in mourning for the death of this deep and ancient part of this world. The sun had left Jaskier as well, leaving him to find the path in the sparse moonlight. He eventually returned to the village, a couple of drunkards staggered from one hut to the next. But even the light and sound of life, of humans peacefully celebrating the passing of another day filled with hard work couldn’t let the bard forget the sight of this evening. It was as if the forest and its dark, heavy silence was still clawing at him.

  


* * *

  


The hunter, although confused and irritated about Jaskier’s presence at first, quickly understood. He grabbed two shovels, handed one over to Jaskier and began walking towards the cemetery. “So the beast killed Mikkjal?”  
  
“Something along the line of that.” It was one of the few times Jaskier didn’t feel like talking. He simply didn’t have the energy for trying to make this situation not as dire as it was with the help of Smalltalk.  
  
“And Geralt killed the beast?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Yonek must have caught on to Jaskier’s mood and only spoke up again when they'd started digging the grave. The graveyard was small, the stones marking the graves were weatherworn and the growing moss on them made the inscriptions nearly impossible to read. Laslow’s grave was one of the few with flowers on it. “It’s sad to say like father like son during such an occasion. But it’s true. In more ways than the obvious one. Mikkjal was a good boy, sometimes I felt like a young Laslow was running around in the village again. They had the same laughter.”  
  
Jaskier didn't know if he should say what Mikkjal ordered him to do now or later. He stayed quiet in his uncertainty. He didn’t even complain about the hard work, the dirt clinging to his clothes, or the sweat building up underneath his chemise, the hot weather only cooled down somewhat during the night. The only sound was the rhythmic digging and, from time to time, an exhausted groan which escaped one of them.  
They decided the grave was deep enough when Yaskier and Yontek both needed to help each other to get out of the grave.  
  
Quickly trying to dry his sweaty hands on his already dirty breeches, he looked around and spied Geralt walking towards them. His white hair made him easy to recognize even in the dark of the night. He carried a bundle in his arms and only when he got closer did Jaskier fully realise that Geralt had wrapped his black cloak around MIkkjal’s body to hide it from everyone.  
  
Standing beside Jaskier, Yontek must have had the same realisation and started silently crying as he saw the tragic truth with his own eyes. “Can I look at him one last time?”, he nearly begged the witcher.  
  
“You shouldn’t.”  
  
“But-”  
  
“Remember him like you described him to me before, not as he is now.”, Jaskier said, laying a hand on Yontek’s shoulder. The advice seemed to calm Yontek down a bit and both men silently watched on as Geralt descended into the grave and gently laid Mikkjal to rest. He climbed back up, without any help. they all looked down at the bundle up fabric wrapped around to hide the creature’s hideous form like a blanket around a freezing child. Like this, Mikkjal looked so much smaller than in the forest.  
  
“I’m not good with words”, Geralt began and if it were any other occasion, Jaskier would’ve rolled his eyes and scoffed in amusement, “but he wanted you to know how much he appreciated everything you did. Even if he sneaked away from time to time.  
  
Yontek smiled, though tears were still rolling down his face. “Thank you for everything… your reward-”  
  
“We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”, Jaskier interrupted, “You should go home now, rest for as long as you still can. We’ll finish this up here.”  
  
Yontek nodded and silently turned around and made his way home. Only Geralt could hear his crying.  
  
Even with Yontek gone, Jaskier didn’t dare say a word. As if speaking about it made the event real and by simply staying quiet, Jaskier could convince not only himself, but the people around him too, that it was all just a simple tale. It certainly seemed more a tale to him, than real. During his travels with Geralt, he saw many unbelievable creatures, and Geralt ought to have seen even more before he’d met up with the bard. However, this was just a bit too much for Jaskier to handle at the moment. He was tired, his heart was heavy and worst of all, he didn’t know what to say. Not that it bothered Geralt. Nevertheless the witcher, judging by his glances he threw in Jaskier’s direction, noticed the lack of words and was worried.  
  
So, they finished filling up the deep dark grave, covering up the small body with earth and Jaskier finally got over himself and muttered a prayer he once learnt, from a life he had long since left behind. He vaguely remembered the face of the priest, surprisingly young but with a sadness in his eyes, which had never left him.  
Geralt said nothing about the prayer, he didn’t join in, nor did he mock Jaskier for suddenly believing in gods when both of them had ridiculed them enough times to earn a lifetime in flames.  
  
They walked the long way back to the inn, the one leading around the village, both to deposit the shovels in front of Yontek’s hut and to postpone the moment of silence once they would lay down in their beds. There was no light from inside Yontek’s hut, though even Jaskier could hear the pacing footsteps without the heightened hearing of a witcher.  
  
The inn was empty, all drunkards had gone home or had long been kicked out, even the innkeeper went to sleep, something Jaskier was very glad of, since he didn’t feel up to apologizing for the lack of a performance this evening right now.  
  
The only sounds were the creaking floorboards, Geralt’s gear and armour making their way rather loudly to the floor and the rustling of their clothes, as they prepared for bed. Had it been another day, another contract and another time, jaskier would’ve ordered a bath for Geralt, but now, the thought of it didn’t even cross his mind. It was too busy with other questions, the most important one of them constantly repeating in his head. What the fuck did he just witness?  
In the end, the questions kept him from sleeping, making him turn over one way and then the other, desperately trying to make the straw-filled mattress more comfortable, because surely then he’ll fall into blissful sleep.  
  
“You’re thinking too loud, I can hear your thoughts from over here.” Geralt’s voice sounded more tired than usual. Either he couldn’t sleep either or his habit of sleeping inhumanly lightly paired with Jaskier’s constant movement kept him awake. “You can just ask.”  
  
This startled Jaskier. Although he acquired the ability to persuade Geralt into talking more about his work if the witcher was in a particular good or drunken mood, Geralt was never the one to start such a conversation.  
  
“Do you know what happened today? What Mikkjal was?”  
  
“No”, a pause, “I’ve never seen anything like it. Maybe some kind of physical manifestation of a wraith, though I doubt it. Should ask Vesemir about it when I head back to Kaer Morhen.”  
  
Jaskier turned to look at Geralt. “When I first heard the scream… I felt so vulnerable and scared. Though I pitied the creature who could produce such a sound of pain. Did you feel it too?”  
  
“You’re too emotional.” A brief smirk appeared on both of their faces, happy at the return of their usual teasing, before the gravity of the situation returned and pushed back down on them. “But yes, I did certainly feel something. Mikkjal certainly had an aura around him, though I don’t know if it stemmed from magical powers or not. My medallion was humming, but mostly due to his overall presence and mutations.”  
  
“Don’t think that you can trick me, Geralt. You didn’t answer my question fully. Did you feel scared too?”  
  
Geralt chose his words carefully. “Witchers aren’t scared of monsters, no matter the kind. Nor are we scared of anything else.”  
  
“You know I already think that’s horseshit.”, Jaskier interjected.  
  
“You wanted me to answer the question. But while I wasn’t scared like you,I felt something too.”  
  
“What? And here I thought witchers couldn’t feel.”  
  
“And I thought you wanted an answer?”, Gearlt said with a teasing tone again, “I was reminded of rather unpleasant memories.”  
  
“Good that I wasn’t the only one then.”  
  
Geralt had turned around so that they faced each other, and while Jaskier could only make out the outlines of Geralt’s body, the witcher, with the aid of the dim moonlight shining through the window, could make out even the tiniest changes in Jaksier’s expression. Like how he bit down at his lower lip, a habit the bard had and always did whenever he thought hard about what to say next.  
  
“You said you know how it feels like. To feel everything. What happened?”  
  
“The trials happened and I became a witcher.”  
  
Gearlt barely talked about his home or his past and Jaskier knew better than to pry in regards to this subject  
  
“You sometimes still feel everything, don’t you?” It was an observation Jaskier made over their shared time. At first, he simply thought Geralt didn’t like people, which is true, but not in this regard. It was much more. It was how Geralt avoided crowds or bigger towns, went up to their room when the inn just began to pour full of life and the clenching and unclenching of his fist, not in an aggressive manner but in a calming one.  
  
“Not everything. After the trials, the effects of the potion decrease slightly and you learn to live with it, to tune things out and not focus on everything around you. However, sometimes I still…. slip up.” Geralt muttered the last part, in hopes of making it unintelligible for Jaskier, not that it helped. At least the darkness hid his face from the bard. He didn’t like admitting his mistakes, especially not to one to which he didn't know the solution to. Jaskier seemed to sense the awkwardness in the following silence and, thankfully for Geralt, changed the topic.  
  
“Want to know what I remembered when I heard the first outcry?”  
  
“Mmh.” It was neither an answer, nor an order. Still, Jaskier continued.  
  
“It was my first year in Oxenfurt. Well, actually right between my first and second year there. I stayed in the city during the break, since… it doesn’t really matter, I just stayed there. Decided I might as well earn some money. Could you believe that some taverns didn’t want to be graced by my talent back then? Oh, what I would do to see the faces of the owners again, seeing their eyes full of regret for having rejected me.”, Jaskier dramatically lifted his hand to his forehead, “Anyway, slightly getting off-topic here. So, like I said, some taverns didn’t want me, but I still needed the money. Because of that, I did a couple of odd jobs here and there. You know, like working in the fields, copying books from the library with knowledge that would’ve been lost otherwise and stuff like that. Once, I worked in a slaughterhouse. Now, I actually didn’t do any of the slaughtering, simply managed the boring paperwork, however, I could still hear everything that happened in those halls. I only worked there briefly, and couldn't eat meat for the next few months.  
"I know it sounds pathetic and probably is, especially to you. But back then, when I was younger and didn’t know jackshit about the world, it left an impression on me.”  
  
“It isn’t pathetic.”  
  
“It is, but still, thanks.”  
  
The thing with Jaskier’s stories was that he rarely told them how they really were. He would always change up at least some details, make everything seem grander and more dramatic than it was. At the beginning, it annoyed Geralt. The world was already filled with enough lies, no need to bring more into it for the simple factor of entertainment (“There is no harm in pepping a story up a notch, especially if the audience likes it better that way, Geralt.” was Jaskier’s defence. A shitty one in Geralt’s opinion.)  
Nevertheless, he grew used to Jaskier’s stories not always making perfect sense if you thought about them too much and he’d proven himself to be quite good at detecting plot holes within them. Like, why Jaskeir needed the money, when he once told Geralt that his parents paid for his education and why he wouldn’t simply go home during the breaks.  
Sometimes Geralt would call him out on his lies, but something inside Jaskier knew this wasn’t going to be the case tonight.  
  
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Jaskier, once again, interrupted the silence, “not to like, cut our stay here abruptly, but I promised the innkeeper to play every night in order to get us this room cheaper and kind of did not do it today. Which means we either have to pay full price for this night, or we’ll get kicked out in the morning.”  
  
“We should leave tomorrow anyway. I just need to finish up what I’ve started, talk with Selyse and Yontek.” He sighed, already dreading the conversation. “By the way, did you manage to get everything on the list I gave you?”  
  
“I did. That’s the reason why I was in the forest at his ungodly hour in the first place. I visited Yanina to get you all your herbs.”  
  
“You stayed at her house for quite a long time.”  
  
“It’s not what you think it is. She’s a lovely woman, trust me, but she said no. I stayed to ask her some more questions about Mikkjal.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Well, does it even matter anymore?”  
  
Geralt sighted once more. They both wanted to avoid talking about the events of tonight.  
  
“I do have one more question though”, Jaskier said, “What killed Mikkjal’s father? It couldn’t have been wolves, right?”  
  
“It was Mikkjal himself before he had a physical appearance.”  
  
“How did you know?”  
  
“The same killing which was caused by Mikkjal happened back then. And they stopped after his birth.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Jaskier took the blanket and threw it down to his feet. The stale air inside the room was hot and felt like it would stick out his skin. He looked over at Geralt, expectantly.  
  
Geralt smiled and moved his blanket out of the way as well, long used to this process, waiting for the bard to join him in his bed. He didn’t have to wait long. Jaskier pressed close to Geralt’s chest, took his hand and put in on his cheek and afterwards to his forehead. Geralt didn’t know if the gesture was to merely cool Jaskier’s face down or if there was more meaning behind it, and Jaskeir didn’t dare admit to such a thing out loud in front of Geralt.  
  
“I’ll come with you tomorrow morning.”,Jaskier murmured into Geralt’s skin.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“You said so yourself today. You’re not good with words. Oh and before I forget it, you can borrow my cloak tomorrow, if you want.”  
  
“You mean the one I gave to you, to stop you from constantly complaining about the cold and the wind, yet you still never wear it?”, Geralt teased, glad that the conversation took on a lighter tone.  
  
Geralt had only seen Jaskier wear the cloak during their travels on paths that were as good as forgotten to all maps. Little did he know that the bard used it as a blanket during their separated winter months. No matter where he stayed, at Oxenfurt or some court, and no matter how pristine and soft the blanket was, the cloak with all its mud stains and carefully mended rips stayed with him. He was absolutely miserable when the scent of the road, Roach and most importantly Geralt slowly had faded out of the fabric.  
  
“It doesn’t match the rest of my clothes, though I still appreciate the gesture.”  
  
“Thanks.” Geralt had never explained to Jaskier why he insisted on always wearing a cloak, so he didn’t know if Jaskier understood it completely or simply thought it was another one of Geralt’s weird habits, like always sitting with the back to a wall, preferably a corner, and his eyes towards the door, or talking to Roach.  
  
“Hey, Geralt.” Jaskier perched his chin on Geralt’s chest and tried his best to hide the yawn escaping from him.  
  
“Mmh?” Slowly but surely sleep was overcoming him as well.  
  
“Ahh, it’s nothing, forget about it.”, Jaskier made himself comfortable once more, sprawling, not much unlike a starfish, over the mattress and Geralt, “Good night.”  
  
“Good night.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings and Spoilers ahead!**  
>   
>  **Body Horror:** What Geralt and Jaskier assume to be a normal contract with a normal monster and a case of a missing child turns out to be far more. The missing child is the actual monster, however it is horribly mutated, due to it not being a monster Geralt had never seen before. There's a good amount of descriptions. If you want to skip the main part of them, you should stop at _"He heard a sob like a child’s trying to stay as silent as possible, to not disturb the sleeping siblings next to it."_ And continue reading at _"“Jaskier!” an all too familiar deep voice called out from behind him."_ However there are still a few descriptions of it here and there afterwards.  
>   
>  **Child death:** The child, a twelve-year-old boy named Mikkjal, is in so much pain in his current state, that Geralt decides the only thing he could do to help is to kill him, quick and as painless as possible. Later on, they also dig his grave and bury him.  
>   
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> You did it! Thank you so much for reading my fic, I really enjoyed writing it and maybe you can leave a kudos or a comment. Only if you want of course.  
> If you want to find me on tumblr, where I post my dumb ideas from time to time, you can do that! I also go as _headless-thoughts_ on there.


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